The Gimmick Killer
by whoever1
Summary: Someone very dangerous is playing with the lives of the WWE wrestlers
1. Chapter 1

_He remembers a woman. _

_A blur of bobbed blonde hair and a flash of bright red lipstick. He remembers her whispering in his ear. Her warm breath against the top of his neck._

_She was attractive, she was forward, she bought him a Pepsi._

_He remembers her fingertips brushing his arm, tracing the tattoos._

_He remembers her hand on his knee, inching its way slowly up his thigh._

_He remembers how she hangs on his every word, smiles at every compliment, laughs at every joke. Her laughter is hearty, unapologetic. _

_He remembers feeling pretty good about himself, like he's drunk on that laugh. Like he's drunk. The room is spinning and he becomes aware that his words are slurred._

_He remembers trying to turn on his bar stool, and almost falling off. He remembers her fingers digging in tightly under his arm as she struggles to keep him up._

_He remembers her smiling sympathetically "You don't look so good. We could go back to my place?" she's saying while helping him to his feet._

_He remembers wrapping his arm around her waist and leaning into her allowing her to lead him towards the club's exit like a new born pup on the end of a leash. His head is nuzzled into her neck; the smell of her perfume's intoxicating, almost sending him to sleep._

_He remembers Colt, stood by the door a bunch of wrestling geeks hanging off his every word. Then a "Punk!" and he's walking towards them._

_And she's kissing him._

_He remembers kissing her back. Trapped wholly in that moment. His hands clasp onto her hips and he pulls her in closer. They're the only two people in the world. Screw who might be watching._

_A short hard slap on his back, and a "Dude, nice." Colt?_

_He remembers his body fizzing, his brain feeling dull, he remembers floating. She stops and again "We should go back to my place". She takes him by the hand and he stumbles away after her._

_He remembers getting into her car. Into the passenger's seat. She puts the radio on and hard rock becomes a lullaby. She's whispering in his ear again. "We're here. I'm gonna need your help in getting up the stairs. And then we can…"_

_An unspoken promise excites him and he summons all of his energy to get to his feet and follow her to the door._

_He remembers the elevator, the faint smell of urine and the steel walls. They get to the door and he leans against the wall while she fumbles through her bag looking for her key. _

_He remembers getting into her apartment. Ridiculously tidy, the faint smell of bleach hitting the back of his nostrils. Then her lips meeting his once more. She pulls his t-shirt up over his head and he struggles to unbutton her blouse while being walked backwards towards her bedroom. A wave of nausea hits him. _

_He remembers her pushing him back onto the bed then straddling him her skirt riding up around her waist. He slides his hands along her legs. Her lips rest against his, she bites at the lower and he wants this. _

_He remembers his head hitting the pillow._

_He remembers breathing deeply._

_He remembers struggling to sit back up as her weight shifts away from him._

_He remembers her kissing him on the cheek "Just go to sleep." He doesn't want to stop but his limbs won't move. His head is pounding and the ceiling will not stay still. He closes his eyes, just for a second, and when he opens them again the lights are out. _

_He remembers knowing that she's still in the room watching him. He wants to get up and make his way home but his body is unwilling. _

_He remembers the feeling of the pillows engulfing his head, the comfort they provide. He wants to sleep, but he knows he shouldn't. It's all so snug and his body is numb. His head is tingling and his body sinks into the mattress. He closes his eyes and then nothing._

He wakes the next day unable to move. He has a filthy headache and it takes him a while to realise that he is tied to the bed. His brain is thumping against the inside of his skull "Oww" he screams before struggling against his bonds.

He tries to remember the woman's face. He can't.


	2. Chapter 2

Monday Morning

Again the smell of bleach.

It's been two hours since we last saw him and CM Punk has shifted through several different emotional states.

He spent a minute surveying his surroundings, trying to figure out what was happening. Stretching his neck and his back against their extremities, and making sure he saw every inch of the room.

Then he spent two minutes being extremely quiet. He thought he heard a noise outside of the room, and it took two minutes of holding his breath and listening hard to realise that he had. He spent the next seventeen minutes calling out to that person. Asking them for help, asking them to talk to him.

Then he lost his temper. For forty nine minutes he thrashed and he screamed and he bounced. Trying to make as much noise as possible, and at the same time releasing his frustration. With all of that energy spent he started to cry.

For five minutes he sobbed, he cried until the corner of the pillow was sodden. And once that phase was out of the he just lay there silently, aware that he couldn't change anything. Hopeful that someone would explain what was going on.

And that's where we are now. Silently waiting for answers, the smell of bleach floating through the door.

The door slams open and he's raising his head. Staring at the door frame, waiting for her to come in.

His eyes widen then crease in confusion. A squat middle aged woman with lank brown hair and thickset features enters the room, carrying a tray of food.

"I have soup" she states in a thick Russian accent. She's waddling across to him, seemingly uninterested in the fact that he's tied to the bed. She's sitting on the corner of the bed now, and dipping a spoon into a bowl. "You eat."

It smells like chicken.

"No thank you" he states, instantly frustrated with himself. Why is he being polite? She's old but he doesn't owe her respect. He's toying with adding the word "Bitch", but that would just be petty.

She examines his face trying to figure him out. "You no eat. You starve. You die. And then we have to hide your body. I think it will be good for both of us if you eat some food."

"Where's the girl?"

"She's at work."

"Why am I here?"

"She said not to tell you."

"I need to use the bathroom"

"I have a pot." Immediately she registers the look of panic in his face, and a wave of sympathy rushes through her. "It's no worry. I am trained. I work for family with man in wheelchair, for six years."

He snaps. He shouts, he screams, he rages. She remains calm. "Mr Punk. There is no one. No one next door. No one upstairs. No one to help." But he's still screaming at her. "I want to see the girl, I want to see the girl."

She raises her voice "Then you wait quietly."

"I want to see the girl."

The old woman plods out of the room, and now he's screaming just for the sake of screaming. Screaming till his throat is raw.

He's still screaming as she re-enters the room carrying a small Tupperware box carefully in both hands. Gently she places it onto the bedside cabinet opening it up to reveal a small syringe containing a clear liquid.

She has his attention. "What are you doing?" She doesn't respond, instead wrapping a long piece of rubber around his arm and tying it off. "What is that?" He's panicking now and starts to struggle but she moves quickly pinning his shoulder with her free arm, and pinning his hand with her knee. She's stronger than she looks. Face filled with desperation he has to try to stop her but he doesn't know how. She takes a swab and wipes his arm.

"Please" he's whimpers.

The needle enters his arm and he watches as some of his own blood enters the syringe.

"I don't even take paracetamol" he's saying as the liquid enters his bloodstream. She takes a few steps back watching him carefully. The whole of his body tenses up as he waits for a reaction.

Less than ten seconds later it hits him. All of the anger and the frustrations are swept away by a wave of bubbles, and stars, and pink. He doesn't even notice that she's cleaning up his vomit.

Monday Evening

He's angry. There's a tell. Storming along the north corridor his bright red face counteracts with his bleached blonde hair. Usually laid back, happy to put on a show – he ignores his colleagues and heads off to find his sounding board.

He storms into her make –shift office. He doesn't knock, he should've. The Viper sits opposite of his girlfriend, her hands are resting gently on his arms. His knuckles white where his fists are clenched, eyes red raw. From crying?

"I'll come back", Dolph Ziggler mutters. He's angry but he's not stupid.

It's too little too late however. Randy forces himself to his feet and barges past the smaller man, out of the office, out of sight.

And now he's going to get it.

"You can't just do that!" she's almost shouting. She's been in the country since she was a child but still when she's angry, or upset, or aroused the tiniest hint of an accent seeps out. "I'm not here to feed your ego. I'm not here at your beck and call. I'm not here just for you. I have a job to do."

She's staring at him now, and he's losing himself in her bright blues. Ever so wide, ever so earnest, just off innocent. He's very close to forgetting why he was so frustrated. And then she softens, sighing despite herself. "What's wrong?"

"CM Punk!" it comes out with more venom than he planned. She's surprised, she moves to place a hand on his shoulder but he brushes her off and makes to pace around the room. "How long have I waited for this? My first real feud. My title! I made him look like gold leading up to Wrestlemania. His holding feud. And now it's my time. My turn to hold the belt and he doesn't turn up. You know how hard I've worked for this!"

She does.

Their first meeting had been under inauspicious circumstances. 2008. His only suspension under the wellness policy. She was new to her position in talent relations, and he was close to the bottom of the wwe roster. She was sent round to issue the suspension and two weeks later she'd visited him again, to make sure he understood the position he was in, to make sure he understood that it would've been very easy for the WWE to cut their losses. He'd poured his heart out to her, wept like a baby, and he'd quickly discovered that she was the friendly face of talent relations. She'd given him her telephone number, and given him advice. How to make himself popular backstage and more importantly how to make himself popular with management. She'd been the person that he'd whined to and moaned to so he didn't have to sound off to the someone who would be happy to bury him.

Now, she's nodding "Vickie was in here fifteen minutes ago. I tried calling him, but no answer."

He's struggling to remain calm.

She carries on "I think the thing you need to remember. This is Mr Straight Edge we're talking about, he's hardly out there on a bender. You need to relax, because this approach it's not going to do you any favours. Especially if something terrible has happened."

He standing right in front of her now, considering his actions, thinking over her words.

"I know." He forces a smile. "I'm just all dressed up with no one to feud with."

She puts her fingers into the waist-band on his trunks and pulls him forward. "You have to be smart. Go out there. See if they want you to do a promo. Get this feud started whether Punk wants it or not."

He's looking down at her feeling a hundred times better about the situation. She always had the better of him. The better of any man that she'd ever come across. He's grabbing both sides of her face and kissing her on the forehead.

He might actually be falling in love.

A little bit.

Early Tuesday Morning

It must be about three am. The effects of the drug are starting to wear off. He's just starting to care about where he is. It's quiet. The old woman must have either gone out, or gone to sleep. The rubber torque hangs loosely around his arm.

He shuffles around awkwardly in an attempt to dispose of the visual reminder but freezes when he hears a door slam shut. A coat is being thrown onto the back of a chair. Keys are being thrown onto a table. A drink is being poured, and a glass is being slammed down. A shower switches on. Then the radio.

"Hello? Who is that? Is that the old lady?"

No answer.

"Great." He puts his head back and he waits. He waits an agonising seventeen minutes.

The shower stops, and the music fades away.

Bright light seeps in illuminating the bedroom, stinging his eyes. He can make out the shape of his visitor. Tall, female, curvy, wrapped only in a towel.

The woman from the night before?

She crawls onto the bed. Crawls on top of him. "Have you missed me?" She purrs into his ear. Her hair is still wet, and he can smell her shampoo, the scent of vanilla clings to her skin. Her body is cool through her towel, through his jeans. She kisses him tenderly and the taste of whiskey lingers on his lips.

He has an erection despite himself, and she smiles, "I guess so."

She rolls to his side and rests her forehead against his cheek. She's tracing patterns onto his chest with her finger, idly it glides further and further away from his neck, and he can't take it anymore.

He shrugs his shoulder aggressively. "What…" His throat is hoarse and that one word hurt like a thousand knives stabbing at his vocal chords. He struggles to carry on "What is…"

"Shhh" she whispers climbing across him to the other side of the bed. She grabs a glass of clear liquid off the bedside cabinet and brings it to his lips but he's resisting. Lips pursed he moves his face away from her.

"Philip. It's water. Open your eyes." He ignores her. She raises her voice ever so slightly "Open your eyes!" Reluctantly he does as he's told and she takes a swig from the glass. "See. Now drink or else you'll make yourself ill."

He intends on taking the tiniest of sips just so he can yell at her but as the glass meets his lips she lifts it higher forcing the liquid into his mouth. The effect is both disturbing and soothing. He has to swallow quickly for fear of drowning but the water lines his mouth and his throat – easing the pain.

She wipes the excess water off his face with her thumbs and stares at him expectantly but he's taking his time to gather his thoughts. "What is this?" he finally asks. Managing to stay calm, just. "Some deranged, obsessed fan? Are you going to keep me tied up, just to have sex with me?"

"Have sex with you?" She's laughing, and unlike the night before the laugh does little to improve his mood. "The woman that was here earlier on, that's my mother. Do you really think she'd help me kidnap a sex slave? You'll be pleased to know that I've not got a CM Punk t-shirt at home."

She leans in closer to him. "I'm not a fan."

Their faces are centimetres apart. Without taking her eyes off him she pulls the rubber tubing tighter around his arm. Her hand pulls the drawer next to the bed open "Then why are you doing this? What is this about?" he pleads.

She looks away from him and for a second it seems as though she feels guilty then a needle pierces the skin in his arm. He prepares himself for the hit.

"This is about punishing you. This is me taking you away from your comfort zone. Taking away your control."

She kisses him again as the liquid plunges into his arm. After seven seconds he isn't sure whether he's resisting her or not.


	3. Chapter 3

Wednesday Night

Dark eyes follow him along the corridor.

The Big Show smiles. A look of contentment etched onto his face. He's feeling pretty good about himself right now. For the first time ever he's being treated with the level of respect to which he's entitled to. He is a giant. In a real fight few people on the roster could take him. It's about time that WWE's management realised that and acted accordingly.

He slips his ear phones in and hums quietly as he strolls towards the exit. He can't hear a man's footsteps following, keeping pace. Watching, waiting.

He steps out into the car park and the cool air hits him with a vengeance. He shivers slightly before pulling his beanie over his ears and hurrying across to his rental. He throws his bag into the boot, and slams it shut.

He yawns. It's time now. To go see his beautiful wife, to go see his beautiful children.

Towards the end of the parking lot he makes out the figure of a woman leaning over her car bonnet and something in the back of his head tells him to ignore her.

Get into the car, go home.

But like all sensible people he shoves these ridiculous notions, these anxieties, this intuition to the back of his head.

Ever the gentleman…

"Excuse me miss? Do you need a hand?" he's calling out while pulling out his earphones.

She answers in a crisp British accent, "I don't know. Do you know anything about cars? I keep meaning to take a course but…"

He smiles as he walks towards her "I can't promise anything but I'll take a look."

Something hits him on the back of the head. Not hard enough to do any permanent damage but with enough force to knock him to his knees.

He steadies himself with his hand but can't turn around quickly enough to block a second blow. He falls down onto his face and hears the clip clopping of a woman's heels before drifting off to sleep.

Although he doesn't realise it yet he's lucky that he's been knocked out cold.

It means he's unconscious as the first three fingers on his right hand are broken. He comes to as the hammer is bought down onto the forth, and the numb thumping in the back of his head is replaced by a searing pain that runs along his index figure, through his hand, up his arm, and straight to his brain.

He screams but the sound is muffled. He can taste cotton in his mouth, like a t-shirt.

A pair of tanned, masculine hands hold his arm in place. Someone is sitting on his back.

He looks up to the person with the hammer, the woman?

Deep blue eyes peer through a plain white mask. The head arches to the side just a little as it examines his face.

It appears quizzical, almost comical. Despite the pain and perhaps in an act of defiance Paul Wight starts to laugh.

Tears are streaming down his face, bones protrude from his middle finger, he's never felt pain like this before, and he's laughing.

The masked face remains unmoved.

Passive!

Silent!

Still!

It waits until he finishes and then it raises the hammer high above it's head and brings it down at full velocity onto his thumb.

Laughter no more.

The Big Show begs for unconsciousness, begs for nothingness.

His two assailants move onto the left hand.


	4. Chapter 4

Thursday Morning

He looks down at his hands, what's left of his hands. Wrapped up, hidden. The old man talks to him but the words seem to fly over his head and out of the room. Perhaps someone else is listening; perhaps someone else gives a damn.

They'd managed to get him a private room in the hospital. He looks through the blinds and see's Paul (Triple H)'s wide, sympathy filled eyes. He sees pity.

He's wrestled HHH on oh so many occasions during his career. Despite his advancing years, just yesterday morning he'd been convinced that he'd get one more match against the cerebral assassin. Now?

He'd known that he'd have to think about retirement at some point but he'd always been sure that the decision would've been his to make.

The old man stands and pats him on the arm.

The Big Show smiles, not because he's heard what was said, more because it's what's expected.

His visitor is pulling the door open, just about to leave; he stops him in his tracks.

"Vince?" The Big Show's voice cracks "I just want to go home."

For the first time ever Mr McMahon is lost for words. He looks down at the giant remembering the goofball, the big cheesy grin. The 7 foot tall monster: who loved children, and animals, and karaoke.

The spark is gone.

"I know you do son. And I'll take care of that personally"

The Big Show starts to cry, and Vince allows the cold business façade to slip just for a second. He sits down next to the wrestler and wraps his arm as far around him as it will go. The Big Show buries his head into the shoulder of Vince's expensive suit. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Triple H turn away. He wonders what he's thinking.

Triple H moves from the window and falls down onto the cheap plastic chair. He's more uncomfortable now than he's ever been. He's never enjoyed wearing a suit. It feels out of place, stifling, it doesn't fit. Right now it seems especially uncomfortable. He fiddles with his collar pulling it away from his neck, trying to breathe.

"How are we going to play this?" The gruff, hoarse voice makes him shiver.

John Laurenitus is everything that he's not. John had found it very easy to fit into the business environment, Triple H hadn't. John had no problem at all with firing people on one of Vince's whims. Triple H still couldn't look past his own start up in the wrestling industry, how difficult it had been, how hard it was to pay the bills on an independent wrestler's wage.

"How are we going to play what?" He replies, barely disguising his disdain for the older man.

"He's going to want answers. What are we doing to safeguard our wrestlers? What are we doing about the CM Punk situation? How are we going to get rid of The Big Show?"

"How are we going to get rid of The Big Show?" Triple H echoes, feeling the anger boil up deep down inside.

"I'm sorry if that offends you, but he means jack to us now. More importantly he means jack to Vince. You saw the x-rays. He's not going to wrestle again. We're going to be paying him to sit on his hands – so to speak."

He wants to hurt him. He wants to take him by the throat, fling him against the wall, and force his smug face through the plaster.

He stops himself.

Deep down he knows that John is right. Vince is going to want solutions. Whatever he might be saying to The Big Show right now, Vince is going to want to get him off the books. John continues "I know this isn't easy for you. I know that you two were friends." And that's exactly what he doesn't want- Johnny Ace's sympathy.

"I'll get Catherine onto it."

"Catherine's still in Louisiana trying to locate our runaway WWE champion."

"You still think he's just AWOL?"

"I couldn't care less. Philip Brooks is an idiot. The guy's made my life a misery for the past five years".

Triple H smiles. He'd had his own run ins with the self-titled "Best in the World", he knows how annoying, how tenacious he can be - but the idea of CM Punk causing John grief still makes him happy.

"I'll take care of it." He states, daring the smaller man to contradict.

Vince interrupts them, "One of you needs to arrange for transport to get him home. Get Stephanie, and the creative team to fly to Stamford. We need to write The Big Show out of all storylines, and we need to figure out what we're going to do about Punk. I'm assuming we still haven't heard anything."

And John's in there straight away with the answers "Catherine contacted the next of kin this morning. Fortunately it wasn't a family member. They're willing to keep quiet for now."

"Well that's something I suppose", Vince is looking directly at Paul now, eyes burning into his soul. "I blame you for this. I never wanted that skinny wrassler representing this company but you convinced me – it's what the fans want. At least we know we won't have a pharmaceutical scandal. Ha! He screws this company over: on your head be it."

John follows Vince out of the room leaving Triple H alone with his thoughts. He needs to get better at playing the game. Quickly!

Thursday Afternoon

He's driving to New Orleans. He shouldn't be, but the phone call in the early hours of the morning from the girl in the WWE's offices had him worried.

"_I'm sorry to disturb you sir, it's just you're down as his next of kin."_

He'd been flippant at first "That's weird. I don't know whether to be flattered or pissed. Do you know what time it is?" Evidently she did, and while she apologised profusely, the urgency in her voice betrayed the fact that she really didn't care. "_We were hoping you might have heard from him. He hasn't been seen by any of our guys since the house show on Saturday. He wasn't at the TV tapings at the start of the week. And then we just saw his message on twitter. A lot of people are worried."_

The message on twitter – posted at 1am – just one word "Wasted!"

He tried calling him straight after that. He called his business number, and the number he gave to his friends, he tried his home number, his girlfriend, and he got in touch with Phil's family but it was to no avail. CM Punk had disappeared off the face of the Earth.

So now he's driving back to the place that he'd last seen him. The club.

A wave of guilt sweeps through him as he remembers watching his friend leave with the blonde. As he remembers patting him on the back, congratulating him. As he remembers thinking his friend's behaviour was a little odd. Watching the very private CM Punk embrace the girl in the middle of the dance floor, watching the straight edge superstar stagger out of the bar.

He pulls his car over to the side of the road, rolls down the window, and rests his head on the back of the seat. Inhaling deeply, attempting to fend off the nausea.

"_Hello? Mr Cabana?"_

Swamped by his own thoughts he's forgotten that she's at the end of the phone. She'd called him back a couple of minutes ago to see if he'd heard anything.

"_I'm sorry if I've offended you… I know that nobody wants to entertain the possibility but it wouldn't be the first time a wrestlers gone off at the deep end. The constant pain, the constant travel..."_

She sounds sweet, like she's trying to help. Like she's trying to prepare him for the worst, for something he knows would never happen. She doesn't know Phil like he does.

"I didn't get your name."

"_It's Catherine"_

"Catherine. First off you can call me Colt. Secondly, this straight edge thing to Phil it's important. He's partied with me so many times and not once has he had a drink. It's not just something he does; it's a part of his identity. He'd quit wrestling before he gave up on it." Then the words he doesn't want to say "I'm worried."

Neither of them speak for a good thirty seconds. Eventually she breaks the silence with a long deep sigh. "_I wish I knew what to say. The problem as I see it is, if we go public with this and it turns out that he is just having a little fun then we've revealed his lapse to the world - he won't ever get that part of his identity back. We've spoken to the police and at present they don't think there's cause for alarm."_

Colt's turn "I disagree. I'm on my way to you now. I'm going to check into the Super 8 and then head onto the club see if they can remember anything. I'll pick you up if you want to tag along."

"_I'm swamped. It's all I can do to stop the story from hitting the dirt sheets. I've called in every single favour I'm owed. Just, you know, if you find anything, you get in touch with me first. I'm not a McMahon but I'm shit hot at human resources. I might be able to help."_

"Thank you."

He switches the phone off and throws it onto the passenger seat. Despite the frustration he's already decided that when this is over he's going to take Catherine out for dinner.

Moments later.

She slams her phone down onto the table cracking the screen, and shocking the old couple sitting at the table just behind her. This is as close as she's been in years to actually losing her cool – to a shouting, screaming, full blown temper tantrum. She remembers where she is.

Breathe in

Breathe out

And in

And out.

Her eyes are locked on the phone, accusingly. She's plotting. Her head rocks slightly and she bites her lip, her fingers rap against the table, and her feet tap frantically on the floor but her eyes never leave that phone. She's about to call him, finalise plans, when a pair of hands impede her vision and a voice whispers into her ear "Guess who?"

She smiles, despite herself. The warmth of his skin, the faintest hint of mint on his breath, the smell of his hair gel.

"Zack Ryder" she answers, her smile widening to a grin. He bites her ear gently, "You're a funny lady, Katie." then kisses her cheek before taking the seat opposite of her.

"Why Mr Ziggler, I was expecting someone else." She pulls the phone towards her, sliding it into her bag. His timing could not be worse.

He examines her face. She's tired. Her eyes are wider than usual – caffeinated, and her skin has taken on a yellow tinge. He assumes it's the CM Punk business taking its toll on her, and once again he feels a surge of anger towards the WWE champion. "What?" she asks suspiciously.

"Nothing. I was just. You look exhausted."

She laughs "Thank you."

"I didn't mean it like that."

Her phone rings, she checks caller ID then brings it up to her ear, simultaneously bringing a finger up to her lips. She listens, seemingly for an age before answering. Her voice is calm, precise, she sounds American "We could get rid of him, quite easily… I'd need to check but there'll be a clause in his contract regarding capacity to work… I'd still suggest that we hold off on any such decisions. He's shown us impeccable loyalty, from a public relations point of view terminating his contract now would be a nightmare… Ok… That's fine. Get her to send the paperwork through and I'll go over it… I'll call you later John."

She switches the phone off. "You watch this." She smiles. "Five, four, three, two, one."

On cue, her phone rings again. She brings the phone up to her ear. "Mr Levesque. Hi… I know, I just spoke to John, I told him that it was a bad idea... Between you and me I don't want to be throwing something like that at him right now. Let's give him a little time to adjust… Exactly… Off the top of my head we could offer a legends contract, a managerial role, media appearances… But then you sell it to Vince as a method of getting The Big Show to jump. He won't want to be that close to the product without being involved. We're portrayed as a friendly, understanding company… Ok… You get him to send the paperwork through and I'll take a look at it… I'll call you later."

She switches the phone off and drops it into her bag. Her eyes meet his "Don't look at me like that. You think you're the only one who has to play politics. I work for John now, but mark my words Levesque will be in power by the end of the year, maybe sooner."

"When was the last time you had a good night's sleep?" His words surprise her. She was expecting a lecture. A show of distaste. He carries on "You know what we should do? I'll book a fancy hotel. You're gonna come and stay with me. I'm sure I could stretch to a couple of spa treatments. A nice dinner, an early night. Breakfast in bed. It sounds good right?"

"It sounds heavenly but…"

"But what?"

She tries to think of something to put him off, but her mind is already working to capacity - ready to burst.

"I need to make a few phone calls first, and I'll need to go to my mums, and grab some stuff." She strokes the top of his hand idly. "Without meaning to sound overly girly. What did I do to deserve you?"

"I know. It's like you won the lottery, right? I'm gonna pop to the gym, get a quick work out in. That gives you like two hours to do what you have to do. I'll meet you here."

He stands and kisses her nose before leaving.

As soon as he's out of sight she rips the phone out of her bag and frantically dials.

Thursday Evening

He has the video tape. He'd thought he'd have to charm, bribe, cheat his way into its possession but in the end someone had called ahead and smoothed things over. The tape was waiting for him behind the bar.

He looks down at it, an actual video tape – reminiscent of the stone ages. He isn't sure how he's going to watch it. He's toying with the idea of going back in, asking if he can use their equipment but a fight breaks out near the entrance and he thinks better of it. He'll have to hunt down a thrift store in the morning.

It's raining heavily now and he throws a few choice words up at the sky, and then back at himself - ruing the decision to park so far away. He'll have to make a dash for it. He tucks the video under his t-shirt and runs.

He's almost back at the car when he hears a man's voice cutting through the darkness.

"Cabana?"

He stops momentarily assuming it's a fan.

Usually he'd be all smiles. Stop for a photograph. Sign whatever they have at hand.

But not tonight. He carries on towards the car.

"Colt Cabana!"

He recognises the voice but he can't quite place it. He isn't in the mood, to speak to anyone. He quickens his pace.

He sprints the last hundred metres desperate to get into the car back to the hotel. He struggles momentarily with the keys. Eventually the door open and he throws the tape onto the passenger seat. He's about to get in when he feels warm breath on the back of his neck.

"Hey man, what's happening?"

Turning around slowly, he's just about registering the man in the balaclava when a burning pain sears through his side, he moves his hand to meet the source and it's caught by the knife as it's pulled out of his body.

The man in the balaclava hits him on the back of his neck and he falls down awkwardly – knees still folded face flat against the floor. He feels the man's hands reach into his pockets and remove his wallet and phone.

Barely able to move he tries to blow the puddle water away from his mouth. He closes his eyes and prepares himself for the killer blow, it doesn't come. The man's voice surprises him. "There's been a stabbing on Perdido Street. The guy's going to need medical attention. Hurry or he might not make it!" The phone falls down onto the floor next to his face.

He hears his car engine start up. The tape's in the car. Even now, struggling to remain conscious all he can think about is the blasted tape.

He struggles to push himself up but his arms buckle and his face is again planted against the cool, wet concrete.

The car drives away, and now all he can do is wait for the sirens.

Thursday Night

They'd checked into the hotel as promised, made use of the spa facilities as promised, and had an early dinner as promised. Then they'd kind of had an argument. Their first actually – something for the diary.

It had all started out innocently enough with the suggestion that she meet his parents, and the

strangest reply: "Why?"

"They really want to meet you. I talk about you. A lot. You're looking at me like I'm weird. That isn't weird. I mean you talk about me right?"

"No."

It had escalated quickly. In his mind he knew that he was pushing her. Trying to prove to himself that she did feel something. That she saw something in him other than wrestling and fucking. She'd told him he was being silly, kicking up a fuss over nothing. He'd criticised her for being cold. She'd called him needy, he'd pointed out that she was obsessively independent - he didn't know anything about her, her secrecy was abnormal. She'd thrown the hotel's phone at him, and then she'd cried, but he'd refused to back down.

Now they're lying next to each other on the hotel bed. They haven't made eye contact for the last four hours. Neither one has spoken for the last four hours.

Eventually she breaks the silence. "Ask me a question."

She stares up at the ceiling, motionless, still. His victory doesn't feel pleasant. "You don't have to do that. I don't want you to do that."

"I don't want to lose you. I didn't know that this was so important." She takes a deep breath "Ask me anything."

"I guess. Tell me about your family."

Her tone is matter of fact, practical. "They were wealthy. We moved here from Bosnia when I was thirteen just before things really kicked off over there. My father was a known Muslim sympathiser, he was a doctor and he would treat anybody regardless of. And so living there, it became unsafe. He poured all of his money into insuring that my mother, my brother and I had safe passage to the USA. He was killed less than two months after we left. My mother was a nurse, she's still here but she's going back to Bosnia soon to live with her sister, and my brother died eight years ago next week. It's not a happy story. You see, you can understand why I don't."

"What happened to your brother?"

"He killed himself." Again the words are delivered void of emotion, "He lost his job, and he couldn't see anything else. He didn't think he had anything else."

She turns over to face him and now he sees it. A flash of anguish, of desperation. "I wish you'd have met him. I think you two would have got on. If he'd have had someone like you, a friend like you."

For a moment he's lost for words, he's never seen her this vulnerable. "You said eight weeks ago next week?" She nods. "Are you doing anything? Visiting his grave?"

"We go every year."

"I'd like to come with you."

She smiles slightly "That's not the most fun of dates. But, if you wouldn't mind…"


	5. Chapter 5

The priest walks into the confessional booth expecting the same old same old. Confessions of blasphemy, wanting and lust, envy, theft, maybe a little adultery.

He wasn't expecting this.

"Forgive me father for I have sinned. It's been… I'm… I'm not religious. I just really needed to talk to someone. Is that ok?"

Something in the man's voice makes him realise he has to listen. He needs to hear this out. "Go ahead."

"When you pray to God does he talk to you? Can you hear his voice in the same way that you can hear mine right now?"

"Not in the same way, no."

"Then how do you know that it's real?"

His belief in God has been questioned before, but it's a belief that he would defend to the death. "Is someone talking to you son?"

"In my mind."

"And what do they say?"

The silence is agonising. For a second he wonders whether the man has left. He peers through the window. A big man, Caucasian, tanned. He sits on the floor, almost bent double with his head between his knees. Eventually, he straightens up. "When God talks to you does he ever ask you to do something that you know isn't right?"

"He never asks for more than I can give. What is the voice asking you to do?"

"How do I know that I can trust you?"

"Whatever you say in here. I can't share it."

"But I'm not a Catholic."

"That doesn't matter."

The tall man stands and paces as much as is physically possible within the confines of the booth "I did something terrible, eight years ago, and now I'm being punished. I... I have been offered the chance of redemption but the price it might be too high. If I carry on…"

"What is the voice asking you to do?"

He listens intently. He hears the man mumbling to himself, talking to himself. He repeats the question. A sense of urgency filling up inside of him – taking hold of his gut and squeezing tightly.

"It tells me to do whatever I have to do to make sure she is safe."

"Who is she?"

"I hurt her. I tore her away from her comfortable life and I made her bleed inside, and now I bleed with her."

The priest is out of his comfort zone. He's been trained to deal with this sort of person but the information, the techniques, they're locked somewhere in the back of his brain and as much as he tries to reach for the answers, reach for solutions, he can't find them.

"What do you have to do to protect her?" He knows he's not going to get a straight answer but he has to keep him talking until… Until what?

The man's voice now, it's gruff. "The way I see it. I have two choices. I face up to my responsibilities. I try to make things right. Or I end it now."

The priest's heart beats ferociously. Through the window he can make out the man's hand held against his throat, and there's something in it."

"Please?" he falls to the floor in his haste to make the exit.

The man shouts, "Stay where you are or I swear I'll do it now, right here in your church." A silence befalls both sides of the confessional booth. "I just wanted you to listen."

"Ok. I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere."

"It's a sin to commit suicide. Is that right?"

"Life is a gift. Please, whatever you have put it down."

"I'm going to leave now. You stay where you are until I've left the church."

"Talk to me."

He hears the door on the other side of the booth slam shut. He's frozen to the spot. He knows that he's failed the man, and he can't help but feel that he's failed several other people but he can't move. He stays where he is and he weeps.

His sleep that night is troubled.


	6. Chapter 6

Very Early Friday Morning

He's listening to the rain pounding against the window. He figures it's two, three in the morning but he can't be sure – the winter nights are long and all he has as a yardstick is the fact the old woman said "goodnight" a long time ago. She seems to be warming to him. He's going to ask her for a clock.

The room is filled with light, just for a second, and then less than a Mississippi later a crack of thunder explodes through the air. The storm's close.

He wants to sleep.

He hasn't been injected today, and rather than provide relief it's made his day longer, made his imprisonment lonelier, made his situation more frustrating. For the first time in the last few days he's been able to compose his thoughts. Clarity hasn't provided comfort.

He's tried counting sheep to no avail. He knows that the more he thinks about sleep, the more difficult it will be to find it but at present he can't help himself. Usually he'd give up. Go grab a comic, watch trash TV, or whatever, and then try again later. Obviously this isn't an option.

He hears footsteps outside, and closes his eyes tightly as the door to his room creaks open. He feels the extra weight on his bed as the second person sits down. He feels the warmth radiate from their body. He feels their fingers comb his hair away from his eyes. Smooth, and delicate…

"Wakey, wakey pumpkin."

He keeps his eyes shut, still defiant, still chasing the small victories. It's the first time he's heard from the girl in over twenty four hours. Deep down he'd convinced himself that she'd grown bored, tired of the torture – that she'd found something/someone else to play with.

She's stroking his face, carefully, tenderly, but still his eyes remain closed. He's refusing to acknowledge her. It takes every ounce of his being to stop himself from reacting to her touch. He wants to flinch, to squirm, to shudder, to scream. He struggles and succeeds in remaining motionless. He gives her nothing.

"Clean shaven." She sighs, two fingers walking along the line of his jaw "My mother is taking good care of you. I think she's growing to be rather fond of you. Like the son she used to have." A hard edge has crept into her voice, a fact that hasn't escaped his attention.

It's difficult to breathe. The room is thick with the sound of silence. She's drumming her fingers softly against his cheek, and he's convinced he's gained a victory. That she's on the back pedal, thinking of something else to say – a few more poisonous words designed to shatter him to the core. She doesn't realise that he's already broken, there's nothing else she can do to hurt him.

Or so he thinks.

"You're friend's in town. Colt Cabana. He was involved in an incident last night and had to be rushed to hospital. I hear he lost a lot of blood."

He can't stop himself, he's screaming. An ugly noise born of anger, and desperation. His head smacks hard against the pillow, and his eyes shoot open. He can almost feel her smiling. A sickly sweet, saccharine grin. "He's ok" she sounds amused, "He's a survivor. I just thought that you should know."

His body jerks, surprising her. She slides off the bed, but nowhere near quickly enough as he struggles ferociously against his bonds. Hand bent at an unusual, painful angle he reaches out and manages to grab her wrist, tightly.

"Leave him alone" he growls.

"I'm not a monster." She screams back at him.

Lightning strikes for the second time, and for the first time since the night he was taken he catches a glimpse of the girl, and his heart is sinking. He'd perhaps arrogantly assumed that his captor would be a criminal mastermind, a genius - Machiavellian in persuasion. Looking at her now – slightly younger than him, pale, eyes wide, jaw tensed, tired, scared – he couldn't have been more wrong.

He's squeezing tighter, mulling his options. He can hear her breathing heavy, and laboured. She's desperately seeking composure, struggling weakly to get her hand free. It's dark again, and CM Punk is lost. Something about her face is familiar. One things for sure, he recognises the expression. Pain, and anger, and helplessness. Slowly, he finds himself releasing the grip on her arm. He closes his eyes and rests his head back against the pillow. "Just do what you have to. I don't care anymore". He braces himself for the injection, it doesn't come. Instead he feels a cotton sheet fall slowly onto his body, moulding itself to his shape, sitting softly on his skin.

She's getting into the bed with him. Her head slides gently onto his chest.

He's confused, wracking his brain – trying to figure out what to do. She doesn't appear to be mocking him. Finally… "I can't sleep. I haven't slept since you got here", she whispers "I'm scared of what I might say if I do."

And now he's worried, more than ever before. While she's in control, and has her game plan he's fairly certain he's going to walk out of this alive. But if she falls apart and starts to improvise all bets are off. He's listening to her breathing, feeling her breath sweep across his torso and he's hoping that she sleeps and finds some sort of peace, and then tomorrow she does what she needs to do so he can be set free. He's lying as still as possible, listening to the rain slowly fade into a patter. He doesn't want to disturb her because he understands that giving her the power, gifting her control in the short term is better for him in the long term. Instead, he focuses all of his attention, and all of his energy, into figuring out why this is happening to him. What could he have done to make her hate him so much?

Eight hours later and it's stopped raining. Any compassion he feels for her melts away as a hypodermic needle pierces his arm.

Friday Afternoon

"Wakey, wakey pumpkin."

The first thing he sees are her blue eyes.

"How are you feeling?"

He struggles to get up into a sitting position and scans the room. Just off white walls, light blue plastic curtains, and sick people, a ridiculous amount of pain in the stomach area – the hospital. He remembers. He gives up on the whole sitting thing and she leans across him, fluffing his pillows, playing nurse. She smells like ice cream.

"Catherine?" he guesses. "Hired help from the WWE, I'm flabbergasted"

"I saw on the internet that you'd been in an accident. I thought I'd mosey my way over and make sure you were ok." She smiles warmly, and already he feels a hell of a lot better. He wants to smile back, maybe make a move, give her a dollop of the old Cabana charm but then that's not why he's here. Back to business "I got the tape, but it was in my car. Whoever took my car, they've got the tape too. That can't be a coincidence."

"Relax. You've been asleep for the last fifteen hours, but I haven't just been sat idly on my thumbs. Your wallet was emptied, but your car was dumped a few blocks from where you were found. The stereo had been ripped out, the trunk was open. Your tape was found on the passenger's seat"

"Thank God."

"Talk to the police, and I'm sure they'll give it back." She pours him a glass of water and brings it slowly to his lips.

"You know I could get used to this", he smirks, allowing himself to be babied.

"Knock, knock." A third voice interrupts them. Dolph Ziggler saunters slowly into the room carrying two paper cups, and a bag of grapes. He hands a drink over to Catherine and tosses the grapes onto Colt's lap.

"Dude!" Colt winces, "What are you doing here?"

"Catherine called. She thought you might want some company. So here I am. And I have been given strict instruction not to allow you to leave before the doctor's release you, and not to let you do anything stupid. No running, no heavy lifting, no chasing bad guys."

"Awesome."

"You two are going to have great fun, I'm sure of it." Catherine stands, taking a long sip of coffee before plonking it down on the bedside table. "I have to go."

Colt thanks the girl as Dolph follows her out of the room. Regardless of what she's said he's sure his mugging had everything to do with his missing friend. He has to get hold of that tape ASAP.

Out in the hall…

"Where did you go last night?"

She pulls her phone from out of her bag and hands it across to him "I had a text, from CM Punk. A photograph actually. A pipe bomb, you might say. I needed some air. I needed time to think."

He scrolls through her phone and opens the message up. It takes a few seconds for him to process the image and then "Wow. Pipe bomb indeed!"

Philip Brooks is asleep; his arm wrapped around a bottle of Jack Daniels like a child hugging a cuddly toy.

She takes the phone off him, and slips it back into her bag. "I'm going to have to tell Vince. I guess this means the search is off."

"Do you want me to tell him?" he offers, pointing back towards Colts bed. She can tell from the hesitancy in his voice that the offer was half-hearted.

"No. I'll speak to him later. It's going to break his heart."


	7. Chapter 7

Monday Morning – New Orleans

He'd waited a long time to watch the tape. He'd assumed that it would reveal the mystery behind the disappearance of CM Punk. Dolph had bought it round that morning, along with an old VHS player. They'd watched it together. They'd seen CM Punk arrive with Colt, they'd watched the night progress, watched Colt hook up with the wrestling fans, watched CM Punk ease away from the group and sit up at the bar by himself, watched CM Punk sip on a Pepsi Cola, and then zap! Nought. The screen had gone blank. Roughly two hours of nothing, and by the time the visuals had returned CM Punk's bar stool was empty.

And now he's looking at Dolph, looking for an explanation, looking for a solution. A solution that doesn't come. Dolphs eyes are darting left, and right, and up, and down. They focus on everything, everything but the television screen, and Colt Cabana. Finally…

"I don't know what to say. I'm sorry man."

"It's not your fault." Colt forces himself to his feet and ejects the tape from the machine. Initially he appears calm. He tosses the tape into the bin next to the desk and walks away before turning back, picking the trash can up and throwing it hard against the wall. He screams.

He flops down on the bed next to Dolph Ziggler and they sit in silence. Dolph Ziggler pats him on the back and forces a smile. "It's going to be ok."

Monday Morning – New Orleans

The two women talk as if he isn't there – he might as well not be. His head is mashed. The old woman is washing his body, keeping him clean and healthy, occasionally her words are directed at him. Motherly, and comforting. "You look very handsome now I think. Clean shaven, I think you sleep better here than at home, no more bags under your eyes" The younger woman stands and storms out of the room, slowly the old woman plods away after her.

Initially, he isn't sure whether they're speaking in a different language, or if it's just his mind playing tricks on him but as their tempers flare the younger woman reverts to English. "We stick to the plan which means tomorrow he goes home, and so do you." The older woman argues back still in her native tongue. "This is ridiculous" the younger woman barks. "You wanted this, it was your idea. But I've taken all the risks, me! And now? You can't keep him. No. It's ludicrous." The slamming of a door indicates the end of the argument, but in the other room someone's temper still runs high. Plates smash and a woman screams. Then silence. Roughly fifteen minutes later he lifts his head as the younger woman saunters into the room.

She's smiling but it's devoid of warmth, devoid of emotion. "Hey there sweet pea"

He's trying to focus on her face, focus on her voice but his mind slips in and out.

"This is all going to be over for you pretty soon. I have some work to do. Two birds, one stone. Then I'm going to come back, and when I do you have to do exactly as I tell you, and then we'll let you go. Stay calm, and this will all be over."

She stands and walks out of the room, and he's left pondering her words. He isn't thinking about his escape, his mind doesn't linger on that. Instead he's worrying about the two birds. Who else is going to be hurt?

Monday Afternoon.

Someone else has been making plans for Monday Night Raw much to the annoyance of John Laurenitus. "I don't get it Vince." He wheezes, "Two weeks ago you'd have jumped at the chance to get rid of him, and now?"

"Don't worry. It's not pity. Press'll have a field day if this gets out. Straight Edge Superstar turned to drink by the wrestling industry."

"The guys an idiot."

"Why? Because he hurt your feelings? The big names, they're all divas – The Rock, Hogan, Steve Austin. My son in law has to have his ego stroked months on end before he's comfortable losing a match on pay per view. Do you suggest I fire him? The only issue I have with Punk is that he's four inches too short, and sixty pounds too light. I might not like him but he still gets a reaction, and he's up there now, one of the top guys, I have to protect him. Whether, I personally like him, or not."

The older man had practiced that very speech in front of the mirror, earlier in the morning. The truth behind it all is that secretly he does like Punk. Just like he'd liked Hogan, and Austin, and Johnson. He likes him for the very reason Laurenitus can't stand him – the challenge.

"We put the storyline into place; if anything gets leaked to the press the assumption will be that it's all a work. Philip Brooks hasn't taken to drink, CM Punk has. The first thing the audience sees when the show airs are those pictures. Got it? A pre-emptive strike."

John Laurenitus stands and heads to the door. He pauses in its frame. "How do we make it make sense? What's the storyline? Other than the photograph?"

"One step at a time. We see how it plays out, and then later on we'll decide on the why."

"And if Punk reveals himself, reveals that it isn't a storyline?"

"Just make it happen John."

Vince watches as the door falls shut then allows his head to fall into his hands. He feels old. The double whammy of the Big Show/CM Punk situations are starting to get to him. Maybe he should think of moving on, retiring, handing the reigns over to his dufus son-in-law. He chuckles. His phone is ringing. He ignores it. He needs five minutes alone. Five minutes to sort himself out.

One hour later.

Dolph Ziggler is running late. He catches sight of himself in the rear view mirror. He hates himself for thinking it but he doesn't look great. His hair needs bleaching, and he has bags under his eyes. He's spent the last few days travelling between New Orleans and Jackson. Babysitting Colt Cabana and working the live shows. He's exhausted. Katie owes him big time.

She's waiting for him at the entrance. She seems relaxed, happy. She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him full on the lips with little concern for who might be watching. Maybe she realises that she owes him.

"You seem in a better mood." He smiles, scanning the area for anybody that might be watching.

"I got something for you." She hands him an envelope. "Flight details and hotel information for Thursday. I squared it with Paul. All the work we put in over the CM Punk thing, we have the weekend to ourselves. And I thought, you know Thursday's going to be a bummer but the rest of it could be nice."

He finds himself falling into step behind her, following her into the arena. The place is already abuzz with expectation. The news of CM Punk's fall from grace has spread like wild-fire. He feels their eyes follow him along the corridor. They're aware that he's part of the inner sanctum now. They're aware that he knows what's going on, they're all desperate to get him alone and ask some questions. Even the great John Cena calls out to him as he passes, the situation is need to know, and apparently Cena hasn't been told. Dolph carries on walking, pretends he hasn't heard.

She feels his discomfort, his sense of detachment from his colleagues and co-workers. Instinctively, protectively she finds herself placing a hand on his shoulder. "This gets easier" she whispers into his ear, "Next week it'll be old news." He's attempting to smile, to nod in agreement but still he feels their eyes burning into the back of his head. He's not one of the boys anymore.

1 minute till the show starts.

They sit down next to each other, supposed enemies. Jerry "The King" Lawler and Michael Cole. Jerry has been in the wrestling industry for as long as he can remember and he still loves it, still bleeds it. But the modern world is catching up with him, he's struggling to keep up – with the ear pieces, and the social networking.

Initially he hadn't warmed to the man sitting to his right, but begrudgingly he'd learnt to respect him. Michael Cole made his life easier, Michael Cole had become Vince's mouthpiece, Michael Cole had become the man who had to listen to Vince rant as the show played out in front of them, Michael Cole had taken up the burden of preaching Vince's message. All Jerry had to do was react to what he saw, somewhat in character. Because of this Michael Cole became the object of the fans abuse while Jerry Lawler bathed in their adoration. They weren't friends but he enjoyed his position.

The younger man pours himself a glass of water as the countdown to the show's opening begins.

Three.

Two.

One.

"Ladies and Gentlemen welcome to Monday night Raw. I'm your host Michael Cole, sitting alongside Jerry "The King" Lawler, and what a show we have in store for you tonight. First off, what of the rumblings around our champion CM Punk? As I understand, he isn't here tonight, AWOL for last weeks show, and then this photograph was sent to us. I don't know about you Jerry, but I am amazed."

"I'm flabbergasted Michael. I know CM Punk. This is not the CM Punk that I know. I'm still not sure if I believe it. I see it, but I don't believe it. I hope it's not true."

"The camera doesn't lie."

"These pictures can be photo shopped."

"They may be. Our boss, Vince McMahon, will be out later on tonight to give us his opinions on the CM Punk scandal, and a decision will be made about the WWE title. Will it remain around CM Punk's waist? Or will he be stripped of his belt? A number of WWE superstars have expressed an opinion on twitter as to what should happen…"

("I'm here to show the world, I'm here to show the world ...") Dolph Ziggler's music blares out into the arena.

Michael Cole continues "and none have been more vocal than this man. Dolph Ziggler. The number one contender. Unable to fight for the title because the champion is apparently unwilling to attend the show."

Cole takes a large swig from his glass of water, as The King takes over. "I wouldn't be surprised if he had something to do with this. This situation is playing right into Dolph Ziggler's hand, he would love the opportunity to take possession of the title without having to fight for it, and it's in CM Punks contract that he has to defend the title at least once every thirty days."

Jerry waits patiently for Cole to take over, continue the conversation, but it appears that the play by play commentator has a frog in his throat. He starts to cough, covering his microphone with his hand. Jerry continues "On top of that, I believe it's in CM Punk's contract that he has to attend all live shows and be ready to fight when the GM demands. Punk could lose his title on a technicality."

The coughing is getting louder now, more desperate. Jerry turns to his co-commentator. "Are you alright?"

Michael Cole falls out of his chair onto the floor, frantically scratching at his throat. Blood pours out of the side of his mouth.

"Can I get some help here?" Jerry calls out as Raw cuts prematurely to commercial.

Vince McMahon runs out ringside, accompanied by The Miz, and a team of medics. The Miz sits next to Jerry Lawler while the medics attend to Jerry's fallen comrade. Jerry is shocked to the core, frozen to the spot. He can feel Vince whispering in his ear but can't make out what he's saying. Occasional phrases stick in his mind "Keep going.", "We'll feed you updates." "Do your best." "He's in good hands."

He looks up to the ring. Dolph Ziggler hasn't moved for the past three minutes, he's just staring as the situation unfolds. Eventually Vince turns his attention to the wrestler, and shouts up "Keep going."

He maintains a rabbit in the headlights look for a few more seconds and examines the microphone in his hand as if it's a foreign object. Then wakes up and slowly brings the microphone to his lips. The adrenaline insures that he delivers the best promo of his career. The crowd have barely notice that Michael Cole has been carried out of the arena via stretcher.

Two hours later.

Kelly Kelly hurts.

She's learnt to hate the wrestling industry. Everything about it is painful. The travel is exhausting, the workouts tiring. Even running the ropes is excruciating. As the bell rings on her latest loss she struggles to her feet. The only thing that keeps her going is the fact that she is nearing the end of all this. This terrible, terrible career. She's made the Maxim 100, she thinks it's time to branch out into the safer, more comfortable world of modelling, and maybe, later on, acting.

She limps from the ring, slapping hands with one or two fans, and makes her way backstage. Nobody's there to greet her, they all know she's leaving and to them she's confirmed what they'd suspected all along. She was only in the industry to raise her profile. It isn't exactly true. She'd watched the WWE since she was a child and she had, honest to God, wanted to make it work, but she wasn't cut out for it. Her early entrance into the company had meant she hadn't gone to college and so she wasn't cut out for much else. Wrestling and modelling. They were her choices, and she couldn't hang around in a world of misery for much longer.

She stumbles to the locker room and strips, grabbing her shampoo and shower gel before rushing into the shower so she can clean up and leave before anyone else shows up.

At first everything's fine. She pours the shampoo into her hands and rubs it into her hair, and nothing. The hot water eases the pain that engulfs her body, providing relief to her tired muscles.

Then a burning sensation on top of her head.

She moves underneath the shower head attempting to find relief but the hot water doesn't help. She turns the faucet to cold and brushes her hands through her hair – panic overtaking her very being. She screams out, but nobody is in the locker room to help.

Clumps of her hair come out in her hands, disgusted, she flings her hands forward and her hair sticks to the tiled wall. "Oh God." She cries.

The foam from the shampoo washes into her eyes first stinging, and then blinding. "Please, help me!" she shouts out loud before slipping to the floor and lying in the fetel position.

Twenty minutes later Eve Torres finds her. Sobbing. Hugging the floor, naked. At first she doesn't understand what's happening. Then she notices the clumps of hair on the floor and the wall, bald patches on her head. Red blisters masking her face. She kneels down and places a hand on her former friends shoulder.

"Kelly?"

No answer.

"I'm going to get help." She runs out of the shower room but re-arrives seconds later with a towel. Tenderly she covers the younger divas modesty and then leaves to find a medic.

One hour later

It's been a weird night. Michael Cole, and Kelly Kelly have both been rushed to the local hospital and now he's standing in the north corridor staring down at his best friend Randy Orton.

John Cena knows that Randy Orton has had problems in the past but he thought the problems were a long way behind him. Randy Orton was married now, he has a child. He isn't the douche bag that John had initially met. The douche bag who had engaged in lewd acts disguised as locker room pranks. Randy Orton has had counselling. Randy Orton is well and truly back on track.

Or so he thought.

Randy Orton is sitting on the floor in the north corridor, arms wrapped around his knees, talking to himself. The same words over and over again. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

John crouches down onto the floor next to him, attempting to wrap an arm around his shoulder. His friend flinches, and when John persists, he gets violent swinging out at the companies number one. John backs off, but his friend jumps up to his feet and lunges at him smacking him hard against the wall. Once, twice. John Cena doesn't want to fight back. He doesn't understand what is happening, but he knows that something is horribly wrong. He calls out, "A little help here!", and within seconds the pair find themselves surrounded by several other wrestlers, seperating them. It takes three men to ground an angry Orton. He fits, and struggles like a man possessed. John continues to talk to his friend but his words fall on deaf ears. Orton spits, and flays.

And then things go from bad to worse.

Laurenitus turns up.

Laurenitus is, at present, the man in charge. His chest is puffed out. He's on a power-trip - big man on campus. He surveys the situation, surveys John's bloody face, and torn clothes. He turns his attention to the rabid man being pinned to the floor.

"Randall. There's only one option available to me at the moment. Until you hear otherwise you're suspended. Without pay! Catherine. Get him out of here."

Cena sighs. This isn't necassary. Orton needs to be helped, not punished. He wants to say something, but he's not sure what he can say that might help. If he speaks it might enrage his friend further, and then what? The police? His whole body is sore. He wants out. He shrugs off whoever it is that's still hanging onto his arm, and storms off, back to the locker room.

The young woman takes Randy Orton by the arm, informing security and wrestlers alike that it's fine and she doesn't need help. For his part Orton is complicit. Limply obliging. Dolph Ziggler makes one last attempt to talk his girlfriend into seeing sense and she smiles at him. She knows what she's doing.

Catherine and The Viper leave together.


End file.
